


A Slow Cruel Descent

by SenLinYu



Series: A Slow Cruel Descent [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Death Eaters, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, F/M, Forced Relationship, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Interrogation, Love Potion/Spell, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), POV Draco Malfoy, Prisoner of War, Psychological Torture, Torture, Tragic Romance, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 16:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14217393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenLinYu/pseuds/SenLinYu
Summary: The war grinds on and Hermione Granger, the lead intelligence for the Order of the Pheonix, is captured. Unable to crack her through interrogation without risking her mind, Voldemort conceives a cruel method of breaking her that involves a reluctant Draco Malfoy.“He stared at her in disgust.She looked—broken.The fire she’d still had when she was dragged in was now extinguished. Her eyes were locked on his face like she were memorizing him.“Stop staring at me.” He snarled. “You stupid bint. You’re supposed to be so clever. They can’t break you with torture but a fucking potion reduces you to a sniveling traitor.”





	A Slow Cruel Descent

**Author's Note:**

> This is a somewhat dark work involving torture, character deaths, mental trauma, and definite elements of dubious consent. Reader discretion is advised.

Draco Malfoy followed Corban Yaxley slowly down a long, darkened hallway.

He had been summoned.

He couldn’t even recall the last time the Dark Lord had asked for him specifically. Ever since Draco’s failure to kill Dumbledore he’d been shafted to the outer rings of Voldemort’s circle. Too purebred to kill, but not useful enough to bring in for any further special assignments.

Draco hadn’t minded.

War, he’d decided, did not suit him. At this point he didn’t really care who won, as long as it would be over.

But, years since Dumbledore’s death, the war still carried on. The Death Eaters held most of wizarding Europe but the Order proved impossible to fully stamp out. The guerrilla warfare they employed was precise and devastating. Even as the Order’s numbers dwindled, their power and abilities only seemed to increase. Potter was a walking war machine, brought out only occasionally for dramatic effect.

But the war still continued. Money and numbers were on Voldemort’s side. Along with Voldemort’s own considerable and slowly cemented power. But Voldemort refused to go out and deal with Potter when he could instead send out followers to gradually winnow away Harry’s friends. Presumably until the-boy-who-lived had no one left to live for.

The two sides were constantly checking each other. There was never any clear progress in any direction.

So the war dragged on.

And Draco had been content on the sidelines; staying beneath everyone’s interest. Surviving.

But now the Dark Lord had summoned him.

Arriving in the large hall filled with only a few others Draco knelt before Voldemort’s seat and proceeded to prostrate himself.

“My Lord,” he said, “you called for me.”

“Draco Malfoy.” Voldemort stood and approached him. “Take off your mask.”

Draco cringed at the undivided attention he was currently receiving but he obediently raise himself to his knees and reached up to pull off his Death Eater mask.

“I have found a use for you, my young follower,” Voldemort informed him, staring down at his face.

“I live to serve you, my Lord,” Draco said automatically, in an even tone, despite the utter panic he was currently experiencing.

“What do you know of the potion Amortentia?” Voldemort inquired.

“My Lord?” Draco was dumbfounded by the question.

“My own mother used it on my father,” Voldemort said casually. “An interesting potion, manipulating one of the greatest powers in magic. Not a power I have found useful, but I am not a fool. I see the potential weapon that love can be.”

Voldemort reached out and, with a quick tug, pulled a hair from Draco’s scalp and then, turning, dropped it into a chalice that was sitting on a nearby table.

“The trouble with Amortentia is that it fades with time. Re-dosage is necessary. Dangerous for a weapon during a war. So, I have had it perfected. You recall Damocles? He has been at work on it for some time, and has brought me the finished product at a most opportune moment.”

Turning toward a Death Eater standing near the door Voldemort ordered, “Bring her in.”

Then Voldemort looked back down at Draco, who was still kneeling on the stones, his anxiety no longer concealed.

“The Order of the Phoenix has been a thorn in my side for too long. Do you know why?”

“Their strategies?” Draco guessed, bracing himself to be cursed in the highly likely event that it was the wrong answer.

“Yes,” Voldemort confirmed, looking irritated. “Able as Potter is, the real reason they have lasted so long is because of their strategic abilities and how they utilize obscure magic and information to catch my Death Eaters off guard. The continued influence of Dumbledore, and now Alastor Moody, and Potter’s friend Weasley, and—that mudblood.”

Voldemort paused and a terrifying smile ghosted across his lips.

“However, I see the way to end the Order now. Ten days ago we captured the mudblood during a raid. So far she has been quite resistant to questioning. Torture, veritaserum, and legilimency have all proved useless, and we cannot risk breaking her entirely and losing the information that she possesses.”

Draco stared at Voldemort in shock.

Granger was one of the most valuable members in the Order. One of the few remaining original faces. The years of war had made her deadly. The golden trio kept themselves separated from each other most of the time; to reduce their target value. She regularly led her own raids and attacks. It was well known that she was the brain behind much of the Order. All information passed through her. She held every piece of intelligence Voldemort wanted. If they could just get it out of her.

Draco had seen her twice since he’d left Hogwarts. She’d nearly killed him on both occasions. Although it was hardly something he took personally. She’d been fighting off an entire hoard of masked Death Eaters and Draco had simply happened to be among them. He’d watched her slaughter dozens of wizards in a matter of minutes. If Voldemort had captured her alive he had likely sacrificed countless numbers of his own ranks to accomplish it.

The sound of chains dragging across stonework interrupted Draco’s thoughts. Looking over his shoulder he watched three Death Eaters drag a small, limp form into the room.

“Miss Granger...” Voldemort floated across the room and, using a single finger, tilted her head back to reveal her face.

She looked starved and her face was beaten a variety of colors. Her jaw seemed slightly crooked as though it were dislocated. She was slightly dazed looking but her eyes were still fiery.

“Tom,” she greeted. “Miss me?”

If any of the Death Eaters had ever had the audacity to use Voldemort’s given name they would have quickly found themselves facing a long and torturous death, but Granger’s defiance seemed to amuse Voldemort.

“Such ability,” Voldemort murmured staring down at her. “It’s a pity about your birth.”

“I could say the same about you,” she said sardonically.

Apparently war had given Granger a harsh, suicidal sense of humor.

Her jaw was assuredly dislocated. It was obvious in the way her words slurred slightly, and how she seemed unable to fully close it.

“If any of my Death Eaters could resist interrogation as well as you have I would be quite pleased.”

“Maybe you should try being nicer to them,” Granger offered blandly.

Voldemort actually laughed. It was terrifying. Even Granger seemed somewhat nonplussed for the first time.

“Unfortunately for you, there are always new techniques to use when trying to get information from people. Exceptional as your mind is with your impressive resistance to torture. I think this new method is one you may be exceptionally vulnerable to,” Voldemort informed her maliciously.

“Bring it over,” he ordered. “Open her mouth.”

Granger gritted her mouth shut and Draco watched with horror as an attendant picked up the chalice on the table and handed it to Voldemort.

One of the Death Eaters clamped his hand over Granger’s nose while another pried her jaw open ruthlessly.

Voldemort immediately poured the contents of the chalice down her throat and then they shoved her mouth closed again so that she couldn’t spit it out as she writhed and attempted to break away.

Finally they released her and stepped back. Letting her drop to the floor. She immediately shoved her fingers down her throat and attempted to regurgitate the swallowed potion. Nothing came up. After several attempts she froze and looked up, seeing Draco for the first time.

“What have you done to me?” she gasped in horror. Her eyes were wide as Draco returned her stare and she started shaking.

“What have you done?” she screamed.

“Miss Granger,” Voldemort’s tone was utterly gleeful as he went gliding over to stand beside Draco. “Allow me to re-introduce you to the love of your life, Draco Malfoy, you recall your old schoolmate, I am sure.”

Granger was shaking her head in disbelief but she continued to stare at Draco, as though she couldn’t tear her eyes from him.

“Now, Miss Granger, you are going to tell us the location of every Order safe house you know and every upcoming raid. Because, if you refuse—“

Voldemort’s wand was suddenly pressed against Draco’s temple.

“ _Crucio_.”

Draco’s eye rolled back into his head and he dropped to the ground. Writhing in agony. He’d had the good fortune, until then, of not having been tortured in a long while. It felt as though every tendon in his body was ready to snap as his muscles seized from the wave of inescapable pain he found himself bathed in. He screamed until his throat stopped working.

Finally the pain stopped. As he regained awareness of anything but the utter agony, he became conscious that he was clasped in someone’s arms.

Granger had crawled across the hall to him, chains and all, and was crouched protectively over his body as she inserted herself defensively between him and Voldemort.

She was sobbing.

“Stop. Stop. Don’t hurt him. I’ll tell you—I’ll tell you everything. Just—don’t hurt him.”

If Draco could have moved he would have shoved her away from him. But his body was spasming from the aftershock of the torture. He lay there, limply, as she hugged him against herself and some of the Order’s most protected secrets poured from her willing lips.

She was still speaking when he finally could muster up the strength to drag himself away from her and stand. She let him go and just sat there on the floor of the hall. Woodenly reciting information.

Draco’s mind was reeling with the situation he had found himself abruptly dragged into. This was Voldemort’s idea of finding him useful. Hanging a mudblood—the mudblood—around his neck like a millstone. Using him as a cudgel with which to break her.

He wanted to kick her in the teeth for being so stupid. For getting caught. For doing this to him.

He supposed it wasn’t really her fault, but she was easier to blame than Voldemort.

Finally she stopped talking.

Voldemort picked up the long scroll that had been filled with information. Rolling it up he handed it over to a nearby Death Eater.

“We will verify what you’ve told us. If any of it proves to be false we will cut off Mr Malfoy’s fingers, knuckle by knuckle and feed them to you.”

“It’s all good information,” she said in a dead voice. “Although, they’ll expect me to be compromised by now. I’m sure most of them will be abandoned, re-warded, or made into traps.”

“We’ll see,” Voldemort replied banishing her chains with a wave of his wand and turning to look at Draco.

“Take her with you. She’s yours. Do whatever you want with her, just keep her mind intact. Guard her as you do your own life. That is, after all, the only thing you do well.”

Then Voldemort turned away.

That was a dismissal if ever Draco had heard one. He reached down and, grabbing Granger by the arm, dragged her out of the hall.

As soon as they were out of Voldemort’s sight he snatched his hand away. He didn’t want to touch her.

Fucking bitch. She’d ruined everything for him.

He stared at her in disgust.

She looked—broken.

The fire she’d still had when she was dragged in was now extinguished. Her eyes were locked on his face like she was memorizing him.

“Stop staring at me,” he snarled. “You stupid bint. You’re supposed to be so clever. They can’t break you with torture but a fucking potion reduces you to a sniveling traitor.”

She paled. Beneath the bruises that obscured most of her face he could see her go white.

“You think I don’t know? My friends are going to die because of this. Possibly all of them. But—I can’t reason my way past it. Watching him torture you was worse than anything that has happened to me during this war. And awful things have happened to me. Even now—I know it’s all induced by a potion, but, it’s like the magic is eroding that knowledge. Eventually—I probably won’t even believe it, I’ll actually think I am in love with you.”

Her face was twisted with grief and the bitterness in her voice was thick enough to poisoned the air. She reached up to her face and, with a grinding sound, fixed her dislocated jaw.

Draco stared. It was hard to even comprehend the blinding level of hatred he was currently experiencing just looking at her. He’d always hated her, but apparently there were unplumbed depths to it.

His hatred before had been paltry. Schoolboy rivalry. Her and her irritating, pinched, swotty face, with its oversized teeth and hideous hair. Her stupid, proper English voice that never stopped talking. Her fucking know-it-all-ness.

But really—why hate her for that when he could hate her for what she’d dragged him into now?

She, who was unbreakable, was now broken by mere notion of him being injured. An hour before they’d have gladly killed each other on a battlefield. And now he was in charge of her. And she was besotted with him, presumably forever. And they would be dragged out and Draco would be tortured until Voldemort had every scrap of information he wanted from her.

Draco had found himself dropped into the center of the war. The exact place he’d spent years assiduously avoiding. Until Voldemort decided to kill her he was stuck there.

The level of loathing and resentment he currently felt for her made him truly afraid he’d murder her out of sheer frustration if given half a chance.

But—if he killed her he’d definitely be screwed.

He gripped her by the arm and apparated them to Malfoy Manor. Once there he shoved her into an extra room and proceeded to pretend she didn’t exist. The manor was a fortress at that point and she was wandless. He didn’t even need to bother with trying to prevent her from escaping.

There was no one else for her to attack. His parents had both died over the course of the war.

He told the house elves to keep her fed and then had nothing else to do with her.

When he ran into her several days later he found she had been right. The potion had eroded her mind. She no longer remembered taking it. She was possessively obsessively in love with him. Nothing he said or did could dissuade her from believing her feelings were real or stop her from following him around like some sort of slave-like spaniel.

He nearly tripped over her, pressed against his bedroom door in the mornings.

It was as though her mind was slightly fractured. She retained most of herself, but anything related to him was skewed slightly.

She understood that he loathed her. She stayed back, trying to keep out of his sight, but apparently unable to stay away from him.

He got into the habit of shooting stinging hexes at her when he caught a glimpse of her. But after the first yelp of surprise she never made a sound when they struck her. She just shuffled back, further out of sight.

It was so aggravating.

Hexing her, insulting her, she’d just endure it. Like a dog that crawled up, licking your hands after you kicked it. Seeing her so pathetic and obsessed over him made him feel physically ill.

He contemplated shoving her into the dungeons. But if he did he’d have to monitor her, make sure imprisonment wasn’t eroding her mental faculties. If he just let her mope around the manor he wouldn’t have to actually bother to interact with her.

Finally he gave up on driving her away and set himself to ignoring her instead. It worked slightly better, but he could never shake how much it unnerved him to feel her constant staring.

Ten days later they were summoned back by Voldemort.

They were both shaking slightly as they went. Just before they walked into the hall she suddenly reached out and laid her hand on his wrist.

“I won’t—I won’t let them hurt you,” she whispered.

He snatched his arm away from her.

“You better not,” he snapped.

“Miss Granger...” Voldemort didn’t even bother to greet Draco. “Perhaps today you would be so good as to tell us how to remove the occlumency shield we have found inserted into the minds of your Order members, that prevents us from accessing certain information even after we break into their minds.”

Granger whitened and hesitated. Pressing her lips together into a hard line. Shaking her head faintly.

Immediately Draco found himself snatched up by Death Eaters and dragged in front of her. There was a wand digging into the flesh beneath his jaw and he glared at her.

Her whole body was trembling. Her face, recovered from most of the bruises, was nearly grey with horror. Her hands twitched toward him but she continued to refuse.

“Do it,” Voldemort commanded. His tone remained amused.

The Death Eaters ripped Draco’s shirt open and he felt the tip of a wand against the skin on his right shoulder. He realized with terror what curse they were probably about to use on him.

“Hurry, Miss Granger, he’ll never fully recover from this, but how broken you want him is entirely up to you,” Voldemort taunted as the curse started.

“You promis—“ Draco snarled at her as he heard the incantation, but his voice was suddenly cut off by his screams of utter agony as the blood in his veins started slowly turning into molten lead.

Instantly, in a move that Draco probably wouldn’t have been able to fully appreciate even if he hadn’t been on the verge of blacking out, she flung herself toward him.

Apparently spell-work wasn’t the only thing she knew how to do. The two Death Eaters holding him were suddenly crumpled heaps on the floor and she caught him as he collapsed. Easing him to the ground and using a wand she had apparently stolen in the process she cancelled the curse and muttered the healing charms needed to keep him from going into shock and preserved his veins so that his circulation wouldn’t stop throughout his shoulder and arm.

Then she raised her hands over her head and dropped the wand.

“I’ll tell you.” Her voice was shaking. “I’ll tell you.”

Draco was barely conscious as she explained the potion that would need to be made and the spell required to unlock the shield.

It was invaluable information. She had invented it. The Order wouldn’t be able to replace that type of safeguard without her. Even if they knew she was compromised, which they certainly must, they wouldn’t have any other method so exceptional with which to protect their secrets.

When she finished he was vaguely aware of being lifted up and then apparated away. A potion was pressed against his lips. After he swallowed it he sank into a dreamless sleep.

When he woke she was asleep in a chair next to him. His wand was in her hand.

His shirt was off and his shoulder and arm was mottled with raised scars that snaked like tendrils over the damaged veins that lay beneath his skin. He’d seen the curse used before. The internal damage to the circulatory system was generally irreparable. Most individuals who received the curse lost or had permanent paralysis to whatever body part it was utilized upon. A few seconds longer and spell would have gone into his arteries and he would have lost his right arm. A slower healing and the nerve damage would have certainly cost him control of his fingers and hand.

Once she had realized what the curse was Granger had been remarkably fast and efficient. He was probably the most intact individual to have ever received it. He’d been thoroughly and expertly healed. When he moved his shoulder it twinged slightly, but he could move his fingers and arm normally.

Snatching his wand from her hand he cast a priori incantatum and found a variety of obscure healing spells, a patronus oddly enough, and—an apparition spell.

He stared at her. She had brought him back to Malfoy Manor herself and healed him.

Her eyes opened and she stared at him.

Having her suddenly awake made him recall his utter fury toward her.

“You promised,” he snarled at her.

“I’m sorry,” was all she said.

He wanted to backhand her.

But—her face was almost cleared of the bruising, if he marked her up again he’d have to stare at it for days. So he didn’t—she was already awful enough to look at, especially with her face constantly twisted in misery.

“At least you weren’t stupid enough to try running with me,” he said looking away from her.

“No. I know how the Dark Marks work,” she said quietly. “The only way we escape is if Harry wins or death. And—I can’t kill you. I almost wish I could, but I’d never be able to bring myself to do it. I’m sorry I got you hurt.”

Looking at her was exhausting. Hating her was exhausting.

“Get out of my room,” he said tiredly.

She left.

He could hear her crying quietly in the hallway. Whether it was over her precious Order or over him he didn’t really care.

They sank into a horrible sort of rhythm after that. He ignored her and she followed him like a dog. And then every few days Voldemort would summon them back and ask her a question while holding Draco at wand point.

She stopped resisting. Told them the answer to anything they asked. Draco imagined she probably withheld details when she thought she could but she never refused again.

Every time they returned to the manor she seemed a little more fractured. He got used to hearing her crying at night. He considered keeping a muffling charm on his door, but the thought of her crying out there without him knowing unnerved him for some reason.

After a few months he started talking to her—because it was creepy to just constantly have someone following him that he was pretending didn’t exist. He showed her where the library was and spent hours there—because if she was reading a book she wasn’t just staring at him endlessly with that expression of sad adoration.

Outside, the tide of the war seemed to be slowly turning. The loss of Granger crippled the Order. Even without the additional hemorrhage of information she had turned into.

Voldemort seemed bored and somewhat disappointed that she had ended up broken with so little effort. She was mechanical. She didn’t even flinch most of the time as she betrayed her friends; detailing vulnerabilities, dueling weaknesses, and techniques the Order regularly utilized. Then, one day, instead of questioning her they dragged in a prisoner.

It seemed to abruptly break her from the trance and she whitened as she whispered “Charlie.”

Charlie Weasley’s mind had been clearly broken under torture. His body twitched and spasmed in a way that indicated extensive exposure to the cruciatus. His eyes lolled around the room but he seemed to still slightly at the sight of Granger.

“Mione, love,” he mumbled. “Couldn’t—keep em out. The shield doesn’t work...”

His voice trailed off. A whimper slipped out of Granger’s mouth as she stared at him.

“Mione—my dragons! Sposed to feed em. Can’t find me gloves...” he sounded dazed and panicked.

“Your dragons are alright, Charlie. Don’t you remember? You relocated them before you left,” she said. Her voice was entirely steady but tears were streaming down her face.

“Harry—he needs you,” Charlie’s voice was suddenly terrifyingly lucid. “He won’t win—not without you. You—you’ve got to go back.”

“Harry has what he needs to win,” Hermione said in that same level voice. “I was just—a bit of books and cleverness.”

“Not—not to anyone who knew you,” Charlie said, “I always meant—to tell you, you were so beautiful...” his voice trailed away and then suddenly grew sharp. “Me dragons! I’m supposed to feed em. Don’t know—where’s my gloves?”

“Miss Granger, as you can see, this prisoner has outlived his usefulness. Please, exsanguinate him. I’m sure you know the spell,” Voldemort ordered, staring down at her with cruel glee.

Granger gasped and started shaking as she continued looking down at Charlie. A Death Eater dropped a wand on the ground in front of her.

Voldemort waited for a moment and then drew his own wand.

“Exsanguinate him or I will choose a different death for him, and let Draco bleed until you do it,” he said coldly.

Granger promptly dropped to her knees and snatched the wand up. Crawling over to Charlie she pulled him into her arms and, placing the tip of the wand under his jaw, whispered the spell.

It was the quickest way to kill him. Using it on his jugular.

She knelt there on the stones as Charlie Weasley bled to death in her arms. Until she was drenched in his blood from the neck down and it pooled into a circle around her.

She didn’t move until a Death Eater reached down and dragged the corpse from her arms.

Then she stood up and, with a quick spell, banished the blood from her body and clothes before dropping the wand down into the puddle of blood she was standing in.

“That’s all,” Voldemort dismissed them.

Draco dragged her out of the hall and apparated her back to the manor. Dropping her arm he strode away and made it halfway through the manor before realizing she wasn’t trailing behind him the way she always did.

Retracing his steps he found her still standing at the apparition point where he’d left her.

She seemed frozen.

Speaking to her couldn’t seem to break her from the trance she was locked in.

He took her by the arm and led her to a bathroom and shoved her, fully clothed, under the spray of the shower.

The water running off of her ran red for a long time. Apparently there were limitations to what cleaning charms could accomplish against several liters of blood.

After ten minutes she still didn’t move.

He was at loss as to what to do.

“Granger.” He shook her slightly. “Granger.”

Her eyes didn’t even seem to see him. Wherever her mind had run away to, he wasn’t sure how to bring it back.

“Hermione,” he tried hesitantly.

She was still unresponsive.

He stepped into the shower with her. Patting her cheeks and shaking her gently and turning her face up to look at him.

“Come on, Granger, you know it was a better death than he would have gotten in any other circumstance,” he tried telling her.

Nothing.

Her fiercely intelligent eyes were entirely blank.

He clapped his hands in front of her face trying to startle her out of the daze.

Nothing.

He was running out of ideas. Finally in desperation he turned her face up toward his and pressed his lips against hers.

Because—she was in love with him. She’d hardly object to having him pretend to like her back.

And he was royally screwed if she went and lost her mind. It was his only order: keep her mind intact.

She remained frozen for several seconds but when he deepened the kiss, she suddenly sobbed and tangled her fingers in his hair as she kissed him back fiercely. Her whole body was pressed against his and she was crying against his lips as she kissed him repeatedly.

Then she suddenly froze and backed away from him.

“Don’t—“ she said raggedly. “Don’t—I know you don’t mean it.”

She stepped out the shower and grabbing a towel, she fled.

Things shifted after that.

He wanted to keep hating her but it took so much fucking effort to try maintaining it. Even though it was pathetic of her to be reduced so completely by her obsession with him. Even though she was the reason he was kept under constant threat of torture and death. It was impossible to keep loathing her with the intensity he wanted to.

He was too sympathetic. It was why he’d always been such a shite Death Eater.

He bought her clothes, so that she stopped wearing whatever transfigured thing he happened to throw at her. And let her eat with him in the dining room. And asked her about what books she was reading, because it made her smile faintly when she told him.

And the war kept grinding on. Week after week. Month after month.

Sometimes they were called in for more information and other times Voldemort called them in to force Granger to kill someone. It seemed to amuse the Dark Lord more than anything else to test bounds of what she would do to protect Draco.

The deaths got crueler. Slower.

Granger regularly returned to the manor dissociating afterward. And, although he tried, Draco couldn’t find any other way to bring her back aside from kissing her.

The kisses got longer and more desperate each time before she would suddenly push herself away and flee.

Draco didn’t really ignore her at all anymore.

He put a cot in the corner of his room so that she’d stop sleeping on the floor in front of his bedroom door. Because—he was sick of tripping over her in the morning and the marble floors were freezing cold.

Draco was never tortured again. After the curse to his shoulder, the mere threat was always sufficient motivation for her.

It started eating at him; the process of watching her shattering in slow motion as she destroyed the Order and herself to protect him.

Even if it was all because of a potion.

As he watched her, it was undeniable that the effect it had on her was enough to gradually break her entirely. It was real for her. Even after half a year it showed no signs of abating. Her desperate affection for him remained unwavering no matter what horror the magic of the potion forced her to commit.

One day, after he apparated her back from an interrogation, he kissed her. Even though she wasn’t dissociating at the time.

He kissed her because he felt guilty. Because Hermione Granger, of all people, was protecting him. And even if it was because of a potion, the agony she was experiencing was real. And it was the only thing he could think of to make it up to her.

She clung to him and kissed him back desperately as he lifted her onto a foyer table and pinned her back against a mirror as he deepened their kiss. As he ripped her shirt open and slid his hands over her body while her ankles locked around his waist.

Until she suddenly froze, the way she always did, and tried to pull away.

“Don’t—“ she whimpered against his lips, “you don’t mean it.”

“I do,” he hissed, refusing to let her break away. Tangling his hands in her hair and arching her neck so that he could kiss along it, tasting her skin.

Because he was so fucking tired of feeling helpless, doing nothing but cowering in his manor trying to survive. Because he wanted to make it up to her and this was the only thing he could give her that she wanted. Because somewhere along the way he had stopped hating her face and her hair and her eyes and her voice. He’d started realizing she was brilliant and capable and beautiful, and much better than him. And because he fucking wanted her, possibly as much as she wanted him.

With a sob she melted against him and kissed him deeply. Pulling open his own shirt. And he tore off her pants and knickers and sank into her while she clung to him.

After that she slept in his bed.

And when they returned from being summoned they would barely finish apparating before their mouths would be locked together and they were ripping the each other’s clothes off.

Fucking against the walls. And on the floors. And stairways. And, on a rare occasion, making it to his room.

It was the only time she stopped seeming broken. And she was fucking perfect. And they were good together that way.

It was the only remotely good thing left for them in the war.

And if, by technicality, it was rape on his part, well—it would just have to get in line on the list of reasons he was condemned. Because it also seemed like the only way to keep any spark of her old self alive.

She would re-emerge, slightly, afterward. Her curiosity would light in her eyes and she would curl herself around him and talk to him. Telling him about books she had read and places she wanted to go. And they would pretend that the whole world wasn’t fucked around them.

But Granger continued to fracture slowly over the following months. And Voldemort gradually started asking fewer questions and making her kill more prisoners.

After she spent an hour slowly siphoning Luna Lovegood’s life out she returned almost comatose. It took Draco hours before he could get her to snap out of it. And then she sobbed in his arms and kissed him and sobbed for hours more before she finally passed out from exhaustion.

He stared at her while she slept for a long time before he drew his wand.

Concentrating hard he closed his eyes and cast his first corporeal patronus.

An Arctic fox gamboled before him and he stared at it for a moment before speaking.

“Go find Harry Potter. Tell him Draco Malfoy wants to meet regarding Hermione Granger, in three hours at Stonehenge.”

The fox stared up at him for a moment before vanishing into the night. Draco looked down at Granger for a while longer before he pulled on his cloak and disapparated with a crack.

It had taken him a while to figure out why Granger had cast a patronus when he’d been unconscious. But eventually he had managed to find the answer in the library: corporeal patronuses could carry messages and find anyone. He was certain she had reached out to the Order, to warn them that anything she had knowledge of was compromised and there was no returning for her. A rescue would be futile.

When Harry Potter arrived at Stonehenge a few hours later Draco could feel a chill from the raw power he was in the presence of.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Potter greeted stiffly. “Your patronus was a surprise.”

“I can imagine.”

“What’s happened to Hermione?” Potter’s voice was hard.

“Apparently Damocles has perfected a love potion. The Dark Lord dosed her with it. Threatening the object of her affections will drive her to do anything: a list of safe houses, the key to the occlumency shields she invented, the code on the protean charms... torture couldn’t break her, but this—it broke her.”

“You’re lying,” Potter’s voice was shaking. Apparently years of war and a truly obscene level of magical ability couldn’t change certain things.

“She sent you a message, didn’t she? Telling you not to rescue her. That’s why. She’s had a wand, the Dark Lord has had them given to her multiple times now. If you stood in front of her right now she wouldn’t go with you. She can’t leave until the Dark Lord is dead.”

“Why?”

“Because she thinks she’s in love with me. And I can’t leave.” He raised his left arm. “I was unconscious and she had my wand and she didn’t try to run with me. She took me home.”

“And what if I just kill you now?” Harry inquired in a deceptively calm voice.

“It might work. It might break the hold the potion has on her,” Draco conceded. “Or she might commit suicide before you can find an antidote for it. This potion—I have never seen anything like it. She doesn’t even remember taking it. She’ll do literally anything if Voldemort threatens me. Fortunately for you he’s restricted himself to interrogating her and making her kill prisoners up for execution. But, eventually it will occur to him that she’d be excellent at field work, and if there’s a wand at my throat she’ll do it. And it’s breaking her. She knows. Aside from the bit where she’s willing to crawl through fire for me, everything else about her is the same. She realizes what she’s doing but if I’m in danger, she can’t stop herself from betraying you. If this goes on for much longer, the guilt will break her mind and you’ll never be able to fix it.”

“Why do you care, Malfoy?”

Draco was silent for a moment.

“Even I have limits to what I’ll stand and watch. So—I don’t care about knowing your plan, but I would like to know if you have one, and if you do, whether you’re planning on getting around to it anytime soon. Because if you aren’t—I may just avada her myself before I have to watch her murder another friend for me. When she goes mad her intelligence and entertainment value will come to an end and the Dark Lord will kill us both. Presumably more slowly than I would.”

Potter stared at him for a while.

“There is a plan,” Harry said at last. “Can you get her to hold on for two more weeks?”

“I’ll try,” Draco said shortly, turning to go.

“What are you expecting to get from this, Malfoy?”

“More pain and suffering. But probably less than at the hands of Voldemort.”

Then Draco left. When he returned to the manor Granger was seated on the steps by the foyer, pale and wide eyed.

“Where did you go?” she asked. “When I woke I couldn’t find you.”

“Sorry, Granger,” he told her as she came over and buried her face against his chest. “I just—had some things to take care of.”

“I can’t get us out,” she said in a thick voice. “I’ve tried to think of any possible way I could get us out—and I can’t.”

He rested a hand on her head.

“It’s not your responsibility to save me. You protect me enough,” he said quietly.

“I have to,” she said, her voice shaking. “I have to. And— I’m running out of time. I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to last.”

So, she did know.

He hadn’t been sure if she was aware of how she was fracturing under the trauma. How much time she kept losing, disappearing into some faraway corner of her mind.

He didn’t know what to say. Any words of hope would be empty. Broken though she was, she wasn’t stupid enough to believe them or even appreciate such sentiment.

“Maybe Potter will come through for you,” he said at last.

She froze.

“What—will happen to you then?” she asked.

“Well, I doubt l’ll be pardoned. But no one will torture me once I’ve received a dementor’s kiss,” he told her truthfully. He was certain she already knew it.

“No. I can’t—I can’t let that happen to you.” Her voice was shaking. “Oh Merlin, Draco—I don’t know what we’re supposed to do.”

There was nothing for them to do.

Draco wasn’t important or high ranked enough to be able to turn into a useful spy for the Order. He was entirely disposable. That was why he was in charge of her. Neither of them had any illusions about his abilities.

Granger wasn’t a millstone around his neck. He was a millstone around hers. Dragging her down. Fracturing her. Stealing away any hope of victory or happiness she could experience in the future, in the off chance Potter won the war.

He couldn’t offer her anything. He couldn’t save her. He couldn’t even run with her. She was locked inside the cage of his servitude to Voldemort. Paltry though his loyalty was, it was inescapable.

He kissed her. Because it was the only thing he could do for her that made her even remotely happy. That soothed the constant, agonizing guilt of her betrayal that she was endlessly burning with.

She cried as she kissed him back.

Then he carried her to his room and took her slowly. And every kiss, every touch, every stroke within her, was the best he could manage as an apology.

They kept on surviving together.

Then one day, quite unexpectedly, while he was standing in the library, he felt Voldemort die.

The shock nearly made him fall over. He stumbled as he felt the hold the Dark Mark had upon him suddenly vanish.

Granger jumped sharply from her chair and he stared over at her.

“It’s over,” was all he could manage, “Voldemort’s dead.”

They stared at each other in wonder and then she gasped and sank to the floor. Sobbing in relief.

He dropped the wards on the manor.

Within a few hours the doors were blasted open and Potter and Weasley and a number of other Order members stormed in.

Granger bolted straight into Potter’s arms, weeping as apologies poured from her lips. She confessed everything she had done. And Potter kept consoling her, saying it wasn’t her fault until she calmed slightly.

But then, almost immediately, she started crying afresh and mumbling, almost compulsively.

“Don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt him. You can’t hurt him. Don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt him. Please. Don’t hurt him.”

She wouldn’t stop. She dragged herself out of Potter’s arms to place herself defensively in front of Draco.

“You—can’t hurt him,” she kept sobbing. “He could have run. When we were waiting for you. He could have run. He could have left me or taken me with him and run. But he stayed here. You can’t—hurt him.”

Everyone in the Order was staring at Draco with utter loathing. But they reluctantly agreed to leave him with her while she was taken to St Mungo’s and the healers tried to heal her trauma and fix her fragmented mind and sought to find a cure for the love potion.

She slowly recovered. Her dissociation spells decreased. She stopped losing herself. And she started to smile occasionally and not look constantly haunted and grieved. But, no matter who told her, she refused to believe she was under the influence of a potion. When they brought in attempted antidotes they had to lie and claim they were potions for her mental trauma or she’d refuse to take them.

And Draco watched. Silently. Trying to keep himself to the periphery.

But she determinedly dragged him into her world.

She made Potter and Weasley talk to him, and went on and on to them about all the remarkable qualities he apparently had. And the kindnesses he had shown her over the course of her imprisonment.

Until he wanted to throw himself out of a window and Potter and Weasley grew more and more tense and pale as she carried on.

Until the healers began broaching the question of whether they should continue to try reversing it. The belief was so deeply rooted in her mind. The shock when it all unraveled might break her permanently and result in sending her to the Janus Thickey ward to live forever with Gilderoy Lockhart and Mr and Mrs Longbottom.

But no one would agree. So they kept her in St Mungo’s, with Draco beside her, while new antidotes were crafted. Then, after months, the antidote was finally made.

There was a certainty about it. If they gave it to her, it would work.

Everyone was tense and angry as they argued whether or not they should. Whether it was worth it. What the risks were. Should Granger be given the chance to regain her agency as the risk of losing her mind? Was it worth it, to get her away from Draco?

The Order couldn’t agree.

Finally Potter, stone faced, just stood and handed the beaker to Draco without a word.

Draco took it and, after staring down at it for several moments, silently turned and carried it to her room.

“Granger,” he said quietly. “I have something for you.”

She stared curiously at the potion in his hands, observing the colour, consistency, and scent of it.

“What’s this one for?” she asked.

“It should be the last one,” he told her evenly. “The healers are hopeful that, after this, you’ll be be able to leave.”

She reached out and he put it in her hands. Then he watched her lift it to her mouth and drink it all.

She placed the empty beaker down on a table and there was a moment—as she glanced up at him affectionately—before it took effect.

Then, something in her flinched and he stood there and watched her fall out of love with him.

As everything in her mind shifted back into place.

Emotions flashed across her features. The horror and shock and anger and terror and guilt. Until she sank down into her bed while she continued to absorb it.

Draco stood and watched it all.

Finally she looked up at him.

The betrayal in her expression. The conflict.

The love potion was gone.

“What—“ she ground out. “I don’t—“

Her voice was thick with tears.

He stared down at her. This was probably the last time he would ever see her.

They could finally arrest him. He would be up for trial. If he wasn’t going to be death sentenced before, with the testimony she’d give now, he certainly would.

“Why—did you do all that?” she finally managed to force out.

There was a pause.

“You didn’t deserve to think you were in love with me and I didn’t love you back,” he said.

Because it was true.

And because it was an easier thing to admit than telling her that he had fallen for her.

“I’ll get Potter,” he told her, turning to go. “He’ll be a better person for you to process this with.”

“Wait,” she said.

Her voice was uneven with emotion.

He stopped, turned back to her, and waited.

She deserved a chance to finally have her say.

To confront him; the person who made her kill countless friends; who’d had sex with her, knowing it wasn’t consensual, that she only wanted him because magic had stolen away her self-determination.

She deserved to finally get to hate him, properly. The way she had been prevented from hating him. The way he deserved to be hated.

If she cursed him or killed him in revenge—

He doubted anyone would fault her for it.

He certainly wouldn’t.

She stood up from the bed and stared at him, pale with shock, shaking with emotion.

“Wait,” she forced out again.

She took a deep, ragged breath. As though she were trying to brace herself for everything she needed to lash out at him with.

“Don’t go,” she said. “Stay—with me.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This work is mildly inspired by a work by SciFiChick774 entitled “Plans and the Fates that Conspire Against Them.” Which is a Lumione work, of sorts, that involves Lucius being dosed with love potion to distract him from supporting Voldemort. Thinking about it made me wonder about a reversal in which Voldemort might try to utilize amortentia similarly against the Order. It was originally intended to be an even darker work, but I cannot for the life of me maintain Draco Malfoy as an asshole to Hermione. So I softened it and went for a happy-ish type of ending. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed. Leave me a review, I love constructive criticism.


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